


Fire's Lullabye

by PyroKlepto



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: (sort of; it starts from the beginning and ends up here and now), Angst, Coming of Age, I will add more tags later but right now I gotta go to work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10039568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyroKlepto/pseuds/PyroKlepto
Summary: Maybe he was God's punishment for some past sin. Maybe he was simply a gift tainted by demonic influence. Or maybe he had taken the path that led here of his own volition.Not that it matters. The fire is in control, and Mick has always known that.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a fic starting from Mick's childhood and my own headcanons about that, and progressing through Juvie, meeting Len, and so forth. This is the prologue to that. It's a bit rushed and a bit rubbish, but I'm going to try and fix that in the proper first chapter. Comments are welcome; just don't be a jerk about it if you want to critique something. Mo sheacht mbeannacht ort.

“Michael? Michael!”

The glow of red and gold flickered against the storm cellar, casting dancing shadows across the face of the young boy sitting there, watching the pile of hay and twigs before him burn. The shouts of his parents from somewhere above fell upon deaf ears.

“Michael, where are you?”

The flames jumped, catching onto a burlap sack of potatoes. Mick - a name he secretly preferred; had ever since a person at church jokingly called him that… one of the only people at church he liked - leaned a bit closer, breath quickening.

The fiery sprites leapt from sack to sack until the blaze was nearly as big as him. He moved closer, the heat licking at his face like a fond dog… 

… and then the storm cellar door burst open with a bang, and large hands seized him by the shoulders, shoving him to the far corner. Mick struggled to a sitting position, watching despondently as his father kicked at the fire, beating it with his coat until it had been snuffed out.

“Oh my god. Michael.” There was his mother, gathering him into her arms and holding him tightly to her chest. He made a discontent sound, fighting against her grasp to no avail.

His father heaved a sigh, rubbing at his forehead. “Only a bit of the food was ruined, Catherine.” He turned to face the woman and young boy still huddled in the corner, one afraid and one simply annoyed. “Michael. Come here.”

Catherine let go of her son. Mick glanced back at her with brow furrowed, then back at his father. He walked forward, stopping in front of the grey-eyed man, who nodded at the smouldering pile of debris. 

“How did you do this?”

Mick used the palm of his hand to rub the side of his head, eyes squinted as he tried to rub away the quiet voice that told him to bring the flames back. “The little sticks, Papa. The ones you use to make fire in the fireplace.”

“Matches,” Catherine said softly, rising to her feet and smoothing her hands down over her skirts. “Peter, I thought I told you to keep those out of reach…” 

“They were hidden under a crate in the barn, darling, I didn’t just leave them lying out.”

Mick glanced toward the ashes of what had once been a glorious fire, frowning and rubbing at his eyes. Bored of the conversation - not knowing, really, why his parents were so upset - he moved for the steps leading out of the storm cellar, small hand reaching into his pocket where a handful of matches still hid.

“He’s six, he shouldn’t be doing these things…”

“I know. I know. We should talk to the priest; maybe there’s something dem--Michael. Michael, stop!”

Just as sunlight fell across his face, Mick found himself forcefully lifted into strong arms and carried out of the storm cellar and toward the barn. His struggling was ignored, met with only a disappointed lecture, drowned out by the incessant urge to strike another match. 

He knew what would happen. It always did after he started fires. He was reprimanded each time; first with words, then with, well… 

It never did what his parents hoped it would; or maybe it did. For a time, his ‘abnormal behaviour’ ceased - only because he was too afraid to leave his room or go near his father. But when the fear subsided, he would wander again, and find matches or sticks, and the cycle would begin again.

And oh, how his parents hated it. But they didn’t understand, and he was afraid to tell them.

Demons, angels, God - he wondered if they were right when they talked at night. When they thought he slept peacefully in his bed, unknowing that he stood outside their room, listening. Listening to how they wondered if he was being plagued by demons; wondered whether God was trying to send some sort of sign. 

Maybe they were right. The voice that drew him to the flames… they said little boys didn’t act like that. Maybe it wasn’t his own thoughts. Maybe it was a demon’s voice.

He didn’t know. He was really too young to understand anything except three things.

One, if he didn’t turn to fire, the urge grew worse and worse until he turned to punching the wall to distract himself. It hurt, but at least he didn’t make his parents angry.

Two, the fire was the only thing that brought him comfort, soothed the inner agitation until it was nothing but a complacent murmur.

Three, his parents were disappointed in him. He didn’t like that; he didn’t like his mother’s tears or his father’s shouts or the switch hanging on the hook in the barn.

He wanted to be what they said was normal. But the fire demanded something different; and in the end, it won.

But it would be many years - nearly ten - before that became reality. 

And the story doesn’t start when the flames were victorious.

The story starts with a young boy and the unfortunate lengths his parents were willing to go to try and save him.


	2. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, there's a lot of religious talk, so be warned for that. My personal headcanon is that Mick was raised very religiously, so for the next few chapters, it'll be a pretty heavy theme. (I have never read the comics, so I am aware that most of this is probably inaccurate.) 
> 
> Feel free to leave comments of any colour, just don't be a jerk. If you have things you want to see, let me know, and I'll see if I can work them in. And for those curious, yes, Leonard will be showing up. It just won't happen until Mick gets carted off to Juvie. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Mick stood up on his bed, listening intently for sounds outside his room. Met with nothing but silence, he clambered down to the floor and over to the window. Moonlight washed over the farmyard, casting a pale glow over the field and the well and the things Mick knew too well.

He crept barefooted to his bedroom door, testing the knob. His parents hadn’t blocked the door tonight. Relieved, he twisted the knob with small hands and padded out into the house. 

His father was snoring in the room next to his own. Even so, Mick made sure to move very quietly until he had opened the door to the outside and walked out into the night, the grass cold against his feet.

At first he just stood there, listening to crickets chirping somewhere in the distance. Stars were shining up above, and he tipped his head back to look at them. Too far though; he lost his balance then and fell to the ground.

Unbothered, he rolled over onto his back and just watched for a bit. Everything seemed so big, even bigger than his dad, and he felt so small; even smaller than he did when his parents were reprimanding him. He couldn’t escape their grasp, but he supposed the sky itself was even more powerful. 

In that moment, he wondered if it would ever fall down; a vast indigo blanket scattered with bright silver, falling from above until it settled across the world, darkening the lights until only stars remained as old memories of what once was.

Then, deciding that was enough thinking, Mick got to his feet and made his way to the barn. He didn’t like thinking too much; usually it was about the Bible verses his mama read, and those could be scary if you thought too much. He preferred to stick to simple things, like the farm and the fire that always lingered in the back of his mind.

The barn was a familiar haven. He spent more time there than the house. The musty smell of hay, the soft sounds of the pigs and the cow resting, the sight of Ruthie the family border collie sprawled out on a pile of straw… 

Mick pushed the barn door shut behind him before moving and collapsing onto the straw beside Ruthie. She heaved a sigh, rolling over to lick his face before settling back to sleep again. Mick wrinkled his nose, wiping the sleeve of his shirt across his face. 

He didn’t sleep right away, though his place beside Ruthie in the straw was warm and comfortable. Instead, his mind drifted again, to the matches he still had hidden. He wanted to go find one… not necessarily to light a fire, but if he could just look into the flame for a few moments, maybe the nagging voice whispering in his mind would go away and he could sleep.

But the switch hung on a hook just across the barn, and his back still stung a little from earlier. So he forced his eyes shut. He tried to remember the prayer his parents had him say before bed, but it was drowned out with visions of flames and sparks and a golden-red glow… 

At first, he wondered if his mama was right and that those attempts to drown his prayers out with fire was the works of a demon.

But that thought was too scary too. So he pushed it away, embracing the imagery of dancing blazes, and finding solace in the beauty of them until sleep finally came and spirited him away into comfortable darkness.

 

Ruthie nudged him awake the next morning, just as the barn door swung open, spilling the faded dawn light across the floor. Mick yawned, rubbing at his eyes before looking up into his father’s tired eyes.

“Michael, what did we say about sleeping out here? It’s not right.” Peter sighed. “Come on. You need to get ready for church.”

Mick got to his feet and stumbled toward the barn door. “Ruthie! C’mon, Ruthie.”

The dog started to trot after him, only to be stopped by Peter. “Mick, no animals in the house. We’ve talked about this too.” Disappointment weighed his voice down, painfully obvious to his son’s ears.

Mick ignored him, breaking into a run and not stopping until he was back inside the house. Almost immediately, his mother leaned down and ran her fingers through his hair, shaking straw loose.

“Mama, stop,” Mick whined, pushing her hand away. It came right back, pulling straw from his clothes as well.

“If you didn’t go out and sleep with the animals, I wouldn’t be doing this,” she chided calmly. She mussed his hair, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. “Now go on upstairs and clean up. Breakfast will be ready when you come down.”

Mick complied, going upstairs. He knew he should probably take a bath… but why bother when it was so much easier to get a cloth wet and just wipe his face and hair? It even took less time. His parents were wasting time with baths; they could use the time to do stuff!

Just like he was using the time to go back to his room and get the matches he had squirreled away under his mattress.

He looked around, making sure no one was watching, and sat down on the floor, striking a match. It burst into light with a faint hiss, and he held it tightly in small fingers, gazing into it. As he did, he felt calmer. He forgot to blow it out, so distracted was he, and dropped the entirely black match with a quiet gasp when it burned down to his fingertips.

He had been burned before. It still startled him even now. 

He picked the charred stick up and put it in the sink, standing on his tiptoes and running the water again, watching the match disappear down the drain, leaving behind a black trail. He rubbed it out with the corner of the cloth he had used to wash his face, then ran back to his room.

After changing his clothes - he knew his parents would make him; everything had to look perfect at church even if he didn’t know why - and shoving his matchbox into his trouser pocket, he made his way back downstairs.

“Michael, I didn’t hear the bath.” Catherine didn’t turn around from her place at the stove.

“I’m clean,” Mick replied simply, climbing onto a chair at the table. 

“You need--”

“I took a bath yesterday,” Mick interrupted, voice plaintive. 

Catherine sighed, transferring eggs from the frying pan onto plates. “Alright. But you’re taking one tomorrow.”

He made a begrudging sound but said nothing more, tugging a glass of milk closer and wrinkling his nose. He got back down and went to get water instead.

“Drink your milk.”

She hadn’t even turned around to look at him. How did she know what he was doing? Mick frowned. “It tastes funny.”

Then his father walked in, taking his coat off and hanging it on the hook. “Drink it, Michael.” He reached out and mussed Mick’s hair on his way up the stairs.

Heaving a sigh, Mick returned to his chair, forcing himself to drink the milk down in just a few gulps. He made a face just as his mother set down eggs and toast, which he quickly turned to in an attempt to get the taste out of his mouth.

Cows were for petting and riding on top of. Their babies could keep the milk, it tasted gross.

The rest of the morning went uneventfully, and before long, they had piled into the car and made their way to church. Mick supposed the reverend was saying important things, and he tried to listen, he did.

He managed at first, when Reverend Greer was talking about King David. Mick liked that story. But then he started talking about Hell,, and Mick forced himself to stop listening after that. He didn’t like thinking about Hell. 

Instead, he distracted himself by watching the man in the leather jacket that sat at the piano and played music for worship before and after service. That was Daniel - or Dan, Mick preferred Dan; he was the one who had jokingly called him Mick instead of Michael once. He was a tall burly guy with a warm smile, and crinkles at the corner of his eyes, and a trimmed beard. He was nice. He actually talked to Mick, and didn’t think he was strange. Or if he did, he didn’t let it keep him from being friendly. (His daughters didn’t like Mick though. But that was okay because he didn’t like them either.) 

He always smelled like cigarette smoke. The reverend had called him out on it before, but he couldn’t stop smoking, he said. He had called it an ‘addiction’. Mick wasn’t sure what that meant yet. Just that it meant Dan didn’t want to stop smoking. 

He understood that. Smoke smelled good. That was probably why he couldn’t stop doing it. 

The piano music started to play, and Mick stood with the rest of his family, listening to the hymns. He didn’t always understand them either, but he knew they talked about good things like Heaven and safety and angels. He wished he could see an angel. Maybe they could answer his questions.

For now, though, the service was over and he was making his way through small groups of people chatting and laughing to get outside. He sat down on a tree stump a bit of a distance away from the building and waited.

Sure enough, there came Dan. He laughed as he approached, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “You know, one day you’re not gonna be able to beat me out here.” 

Mick shrugged, swinging his feet and watching intently as Dan drew a lighter from his pocket and flicked his thumb, setting off first sparks and then a flame, which he used to light the cigarette. 

“How you doing, kid?” Dan exhaled smoke, and Mick watched it spiral into the sunlight.

“I’m okay.” A pause. “Can I--”

“No.” Dan shook his head, a fond sort of smile crossing his face. “You ask this at least once a month, kid. You can’t smoke until you’re my age.”

“Just thought I’d ask,” Mick replied, sighing. 

Dan chuckled. “Of course.” He tapped a fingertip against the cigarette, sending bits of ash drifting to the ground. “So, how’s the gang? The dog, the cows, the pigs. You taking care of them?”

“Papa is. I help though.” Sometimes he did. He liked to. The animals didn’t talk, didn’t judge. “Ruthie had to take a bath. She rolled around in the mud after it rained.”

“Yeah, that won’t do. Gotta make sure Ruthie stays nice and clean.” Dan settled down to sit on the ground so he wasn’t looming over Mick. “So, you thought more about learning to play the piano?”

Mick nodded, hopping off the tree stump and sitting down across from Dan. “Maybe later. I wanna learn guitar.” 

“Really? Why’s that?” Dan reached down and ground the end of his cigarette against the grass, snuffing it out.

“I saw a guy on TV in the drugstore playing one when Mama took me into town to go shopping.” Mick replied. He didn’t have any real reason for wanting to learn it; just that he had liked the sound of the song playing. 

Dan nodded. “Gotcha. Well, I have a guitar at home. If you get your parents’ permission, I might give you lessons.” He arched an eyebrow, offering a hand. “Okay?”

Mick blinked, staring at the other’s hand for a long time, not quite sure what to do. Then Dan made a motion, and it clicked, causing Mick to finally reach out and shake his hand. 

Silence fell, and Mick let it. It was comfortable, almost. He didn’t mind the quiet; was used to it, either from spending time with animals that didn’t speak at all or from the times his parents simply didn’t know what to say to him. This wasn’t a tense silence though.

Of course, it had to break; churchgoers were beginning to leave the building, though still talking away. And then Dan spoke again.

“Hey, Michael?”

Mick looked at him, tilting his head. The other’s voice was serious again, kind of like when the Reverend stopped shouting and just talked at regular volume. “What?”

“Have you been playing with fire again?” The words weren’t reprimanding, nor accusatory. They were almost kind. Like he really cared about Mick.

He shrugged, not wanting to lie but also not wanting to answer. 

Dan reached out and patted his shoulder. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m not gonna get mad at you. I just wanted to ask. You know you can always come to me or to anyone else in the church, right? If you need help?”

Mick nodded, even though he didn’t really believe those words. Everybody else in the church looked at him strangely. Like he wasn’t supposed to be there. Besides, if his parents couldn’t help, then no one else could.

Dan ruffled his hair lightly. “Good. I know you probably hear this a lot, but just remember there’s a plan, okay? Nothing happens without first being planned by God.”

It was always funny to hear that coming from Dan. It was something other people in church said, dressed in button-up shirts or dresses and smelling like flowers or cinnamon. It wasn’t something you usually heard from a man wearing leather and smelling like smoke. 

Somehow it was almost more comforting to hear from him than from the others. So Mick nodded again, saying nothing aloud. 

“Michael.”

Both Mick and Dan looked up as his parents approached. His mother looked like she had been crying, and his father… well, he wasn’t showing much emotion at all. Mick shifted on the ground, not standing but drawing his knees to his chest. 

Dan murmured something he didn’t quite hear and rose to his feet, reaching down and offering his hand. Mick looked from his parents to Dan and took his hand, allowing him to help him up.

“Good morning, Catherine. Peter.” Dan nodded to them. “I hope everything’s okay. We were just talking.”

“Everything’s fine,” Peter said, though the smile he offered didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks for watching him.”

The finality in those words was noticed by everyone there. Dan nodded briefly, rubbing at the back of his neck. He looked down. “I’ll see you next Sunday, okay, Mikey?”

Mick nodded once more, saying nothing but bringing his hand up in a short wave as Dan walked away. He looked back to his parents, wondering why his mother wasn’t meeting his eyes.

“Michael, come on,” Peter said, taking his son’s hand.

“Did I do something?” Had they somehow found out about the matches in his pocket? Were they mad about him talking to Dan?

The silence that followed was not reassuring. He repeated the question, trying to tug his hand out of his father’s as he was led back toward the church. 

“No, sweetheart.” His mother finally spoke, reaching down to touch his shoulder for just a moment.

She still sounded like she was crying, except she wasn’t. Mick lifted his gaze to her, and then to his father, confused.

“We’re just taking you to talk to Reverend Greer, Michael,” his father said, leading Mick up the steps to the church. 

Mick didn’t want to talk to the reverend. He always acted nice, and he had never actually been mean, but Mick always got the feeling that he wasn’t liked very much by the reverend. 

But he didn’t say anything as he walked inside the church, mostly empty now except for a few stragglers already moving toward the door. 

Mick watched them go out into the sunlit afternoon, then turned his gaze back to the man dressed all in black and standing at the foot of the stage. Reverend Greer smiled.

All Mick could think was that his smile didn’t reach his eyes either.


	3. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, heavy religious themes in this chapter. Not a lot happens in this one and it seems a bit rushed, but the next one should be better and be a fair bit longer. As usual, leave any comments you like so long as you don't be a jerk, and feel free to leave suggestions for what you'd like to see. Thanks for reading.

“Hello, Michael.”

Mick turned his gaze upward to meet the eyes of the reverend, his clothing all black and white and neat. He didn’t look anything like the farmers that Mick saw on most days; sure, all of them cleaned up to go to church - even if Mick didn’t understand why - but the reverend looked different. That didn’t make sense to him either.

His father nudged him, and Mick finally said without much emotion, “Hi.”

“Your parents and I have been talking.” Reverend Greer’s smile had vanished now, replaced with a neutral expression. It was no more reassuring than the smile had been.

Mick glanced up at his mother, standing nearby, her eyes still glistening, and then back at the reverend. “Why’d you make my mama cry?”

The reverend’s expression distorted into a frown, and Mick felt his father’s hand tight around his upper arm - not painfully so, but just firm enough to give a warning. “Michael. Reverend Greer did no such thing. Don’t be rude.” The words were hushed, but in the silence of the church, they echoed, and it would have been just the same if they had been spoken at a normal volume.

Mick didn’t respond, his fingers itching. The matches were still in his pocket, and the longer he stood here under the scrutinising eyes of the reverend, the more he wanted to run off and find a quiet place, a place where he could soothe his thoughts with the warm glow of the flame.

“He didn’t, sweetheart. It’s okay.” His mother’s voice sounded strained, but held attempts at comfort all the same. Mick wanted to go stand by her instead; hide behind her skirts until they went home. 

But his father still held onto his arm, and the reverend still seemed to want to talk, so he was stuck here.

“Do you know why you’re here, Michael?” the reverend continued, taking a step forward. 

Mick automatically tugged at his father’s grasp, wanting to take a step back. “You wanted to talk.”

“Right.” Reverend Greer didn’t move any closer, but instead sank into a crouch, grey eyes peering at Mick. He flashed another smile, probably meant to be kind and comforting. “Michael… you’re very sick. Do you know that?”

Mick frowned, pushing his free hand into his pocket - the empty one, to avoid drawing attention to his matches. “I’m not sick. I feel fine. Papa, I wanna go home.”

“Just hush and listen. Please.” Peter’s voice sounded strained too; not from tears, though. From something else. Some sort of desperation.

“You are, but it’s not a sickness like a cold,” the reverend continued, still crouching at eye-level and still far too close for Mick’s liking. He kept expecting the man to reach out and cuff him around the ear. “It’s a spiritual sickness, of sorts. Do you know what that is?”

Mick said nothing, only looked at him with a guarded expression. 

“It means that Satan has a hold of your soul, Michael,” the reverend said, the words falling from his lips in low tones. “He is eating away at your soul, trying to claim it for his own, and he’s using his demons to help.”

Mick shifted uncomfortably, struggling against his father’s grip, agitated and wanting nothing more than to run out of the church and never come back. They were talking about demons again. Why did they always talk about demons? He wasn’t a demon and there wasn’t a demon inside him. At least he didn’t think so. He supposed he didn’t really know.

That was almost more frightening than the reverend’s intense stare and judging expression.

For a moment, the Reverend straightened up, turning his gaze on Peter and Catherine. “You see how afraid he is? The presence knows it’s been found out. It’s trying to gain control. You need to go see Father Duncan immediately.”

Mick’s mother started crying again. He didn’t like it, he didn’t like any of this. Frustrated, he pulled harder against his father’s grasp, but it had only tightened with trembling hands. 

“You said you’d make sure everything was ready? You’ll contact him and let him know we’re coming?” Peter asked, voice quiet even as he tried to contain his struggling son.

The reverend nodded. “He knows when you plan to arrive. If you have any questions, you have his number.” He reached out over Mick’s head to clasp Peter’s shoulder for a moment. “I wish you both the best of luck and may God be with you. I hope you find the help your son needs.”

Goodbyes were spoken and Mick found himself being bodily carried out to the car and pushed into the backseat even as he tried to dart through the open door. The car ride was a tense one; he said nothing, and as much as he wanted to cry - just like his mother still was, even if silently - he forced the tears to stay in his eyes. Instead, he hugged his knees to his chest, one arm wrapped around them and the other clenched to his side, fingers pressing against the matchbox in his trouser pocket.

The tension followed them from the car, down the dirt path, and into the house. Then and only then did anyone speak.

“Michael… I know you’re scared, but this is going to help you,” Catherine said softly, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief and reaching out.

Mick dodged her touch, looking from her to his father who stood with dour expression by the stove. “I’m not sick! I’m fine! I don’t--”

“Michael, none of this is normal,” Peter said, sounding tired and sad all at once. “Your obsession with fire, the way you rarely speak to anyone, the way you almost refuse to try to make friends, your constant bending of rules… this trip to the city to see Father Duncan will help you. You can finally be a happy, normal little boy.”

Mick shook his head vehemently, trying to find the words to protest. But he found he couldn’t. He wasn’t like other children, he knew that. It was why he mostly kept to himself. But he didn’t understand why that was bad and he didn’t understand why they were going to the city. And he didn’t understand why the thought of it scared him so much.

He didn’t say anything at all, blinking against the sting in his eyes and staring at the floor. He could hear his father sigh softly. 

“Everything will be fine, Michael. We’re going to help you, I promise.” 

Mick didn’t say anything, listening as his father’s footsteps retreated and the front door opening and shutting. When he finally lifted his gaze, he was alone in the kitchen with his mother, who sat staring at the tabletop, a tremor in her shoulders.

At first, Mick thought of going to try and comfort her. But he wasn’t sure he could. So instead, he retreated to his room for the remainder of the day.

As much as he wanted to, he didn’t touch the matches at all.

 

Dinner was tense as well. Mick said nothing and refused to make eye contact, finishing his meal quickly and ignoring whatever forced conversation his parents were trying to have. The moment he could, he hurried away to his room again. 

They had told him to pack so that they could leave the next day. He had a small suitcase lying open in the middle of the floor, but did nothing with it, only lay on his bed casting it distrustful glances as though it were to blame for everything going on - though he knew the only cause of the tears and the stress and the mysterious visit to the city were his fault and his alone.

Sometime later - around bedtime, according to the clock - a gentle knock sounded outside. Mick sniffed, wiping a few tears off his face with one small fist. He didn’t say anything but made an affirmative noise, sitting up in bed.

His mother opened the door and walked in, shutting it behind her. She offered a cautious smile, nodding at him. “Mind if I come in, Mikey?"

He shook his head, watching as she made her way over to the closet. Humming a quiet tune, she started to pack his suitcase. "Let me do this. We won't be gone long; I really don't know why we're bringing luggage at all, but I suppose it's always best to be prepared." She drew shirts and a pair of trousers from the closet, kneeling down and beginning to fold them neatly into the small suitcase resting there on the floor. Mick watched her silently, wishing he could tell her not to pack, and not to take him to the city. 

But he didn't want to make her cry again, so he didn't. He let his mind wander while she packed, wondering if he could get away with sneaking Ruthie into his room later. He didn't want to leave without spending time with her. He also didn't want to spend tonight by himself, though he would never admit that to himself or anyone else.

Before long, Catherine made a pleased sound. "There. We're all packed."

Mick tore himself from his thoughts to watch as she closed the suitcase on an assortment of clothing, and the book she was using to teach him to read. She set the suitcase off to the side of the door and then looked over to meet his gaze. For a moment they only remained silent, staring at one another. Then she nodded toward the bed. "May I sit down, sweetheart?"

He shrugged, shifting over to one side of the bed and letting her climb atop it with him. “Is everything okay?”

Mick didn’t look at her, staring pensively at a crack in the wall. “I don’t wanna go. I’ll be good, I promise.”

Catherine sighed, shifting closer and putting her arm around him, squeezing lightly. “I know you’re scared, Michael.” Almost as an afterthought to herself she murmured, “You’re so young…” 

Mick considered pulling away but instead settled against his mother, resting his head on her shoulder. She pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head, and he could feel her smiling against his hair.

“Everything is going to be okay. We’re trying to help. It’ll all be better soon, and even if it’s scary now, you’ll be so much happier afterward, Mikey. I promise.”

He wasn’t sure he believed her. But her voice was comforting, as was the hand gently stroking up and down his arm, so he nodded slightly, moving a bit closer. “Mama?”

“Yes?” Another gentle kiss to the top of his head.

“Can you sing that song again?”

She laughed quietly, and Mick liked that sound a lot better than the sound of her crying. “You always complain when I sing Captain and Tennille, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, but I wanna hear the happy song.” 

His mother shifted slightly, drawing them both into a more comfortable position. “Alright. Then you get some sleep.” 

Mick nodded, letting his eyes shut slowly. It wasn’t easy to find sleep most nights, but tonight for some reason, despite his fear and the ache in his chest, it was much easier to drift off as the sound of his mother’s soft singing filled the room.

“ _With every note I play, I play with love;_  
_With every word I sing, it's comin' from my heart._  
_And so I sing a song of joy for you_  
_With all the happiness this melody brings -_  
_With all the happiness this melody brings…”_


	4. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The religious undertones continue, though they're not nearly as bad in this chapter. A bit more excitement in this one, which will be amped up by about five hundred in the chapter after this one. As always, leave suggestions or critiques or whatever you like in the comments, just don't be a jerk. Thanks for reading.

Usually, Mick didn’t care about long road trips. Most of the time, he napped until they reached their destination. The only times he didn’t were when he was restless, in which case he spent most of the ride complaining or fidgeting. 

This was one of the latter times.

Napping was not an option, his body too tense with anxiety of whatever awaited him in the city. He wasn’t quite sure; something just felt off, and he hated not knowing what it was. He also hated that they would be traveling overnight to get there - there were other cities closer, and when he asked why they didn’t just go there, his mother had explained that Father Duncan lived further away.

Mick didn’t know why Father Duncan mattered. They had a reverend back home, and surely the two were the same thing. Both were religious leaders who read books that were usually boring and talked about Heaven and Hell a lot. There wasn’t much else to them, he thought; at least, there hadn’t seemed to be when his grandparents took him to Mass once.

It didn’t matter anyway. He didn’t have a choice in the matter.

The sun had set when Peter finally parked the car outside a motel. Mick peered out the window into the darkness. A group of people stood under an awning across the parking lot from the motel, smoking and not doing much else, awash in the reddish glow from the neon sign proclaiming the establishment’s existence.

Clouds drifted across the moon, covering it almost completely until nothing remained but a faint muffled glow. The moment the car door opened, Mick jumped out and leaned back to get a better look at the sky. He couldn’t see the stars either.

His parents were talking; something about money, and about how they would only stay for one night. He ignored them, looking around some more. The men across the parking lot were watching them; not maliciously, but with more of a bored air. 

One of them whistled, a low tune that pierced the quiet night air. Mick listened to it until his parents led him inside and the sounds faded away.

The room they were led to wasn’t anything fancy. A small room with two beds, an armchair, and an even smaller bathroom. The stale scent of smoke clung to the walls and the curtains covering a window that overlooked the parking lot three floors down. If Mick squinted, he could see the dark outlines of a fire escape just outside.

“Michael?”

Mick prodded at one of the beds before wandering over to the window. A car coasted past on the road outside the parking lot.

“Michael.” A strong hand grasped his shoulder and turned him around, pushing him gently toward the bed. “Are you listening to me?”

Mick looked up at his father and nodded. 

“I’m going to need you to follow three rules, okay?” Peter knelt on the floor in front of Mick. “Please. First, don’t leave the room. Second, do not use the phone. Third, don’t go out on the balcony. Alright?”

Mick nodded again, glancing at the black telephone sitting on the bedside table, a long-forgotten carnation dried and resting against the cord. He wondered where it came from. Maybe there were flowers somewhere outside.

“Promise me you won’t do any of those things, okay?” his father persisted.

“Promise,” Mick replied quietly, looking back at his father. 

Peter’s hand ruffled Mick’s hair, and then he rose to his feet and entered the bathroom. The sink turned on, the sound of rushing water filling the air.

Mick climbed all the way onto the bed he was seated on and flopped over onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He wondered how Ruthie was doing without him. The neighbour said they would take care of the animals while the Rorys were gone, but it wasn’t the same thing. He hoped they knew Ruthie’s favourite place to be petted - just behind her ears. 

After about an hour, food had been eaten and all three of the family members were in bed. Mick lay awake on the bed nearest to the door, still watching the ceiling and tracing cracks. His parents breathed softly from the bed a few feet away.

He slid out from under the blankets and tiptoed over to the window again, gazing outside. The clouds still hid the moon and stars from sight, but the red glow of the motel sign cast a crimson hue over the night. 

A shadow moving caught his attention, and Mick glanced down at the ground. A man was walking back and forth below. Not from the group he had seen earlier; they had gone. This man didn’t look like any of them. Maybe he was from the hotel too.

The glimmer of a golden-red flame emitted from the silver lighter in his hand.

Mick glanced back at his parents, sleeping soundly on their bed, and then reached up to slowly open the door out onto the balcony. It slid open easily, and he stepped out into the cold air, bare feet frigid against the metal of the fire escape. 

He peered through the bars at the man further below. It wasn’t nearly close enough to see the flame as well as he would like, so he cautiously began to creep his way down the steps of the fire escape until he was perched on the one on the second floor.

Something shifted beneath his toes - a crumpled paper - and sent it fluttering to the ground. Mick froze, shrinking back just as the man below lifted his gaze to meet Mick’s own eyes.

And he smiled. “You look a bit small to be out and about this late. Especially skulking around on fire escapes.”

Mick placed a finger against his lips, trying to get the man to be quiet. The last thing he wanted were for his parents to wake up.

The stranger continued talking in quieter tones. “What’re you doing out here?”

Mick paused. “I saw the fire.”

A confused pause. “Huh?”

Mick nodded toward the man. “Your hand. Dan from church has one of those. I like them.”

The man glanced down at the lighter still in his hand and then grinned. “Lighter. Yeah, I use it to light up my cigarettes. You like it, huh?” He motioned with his free hand. “Why don’t you c’mon down here? You can get a closer look.”

Mick paused, looking back up to his hotel room on the third floor. Then back down at the man further down. 

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I just figured you’d want a closer look.” The man shrugged. He paused. “You scared to climb the rest of the way down?” He moved toward the fire escape. “That’s okay, I can come up there…” 

Mick hesitated, his eyes glued on the lighter still in the stranger’s hand. But as the man started to ascend the fire escape toward him, he shifted backward, uncertain. Before he could decide what he wanted to do, the man was looming over him and reaching out to grasp Mick’s shoulder.

Whatever trance Mick had been under broke and he jerked backward, trying to escape. His back thudded against a solid surface, and he could vaguely hear the stranger shushing him as they tried to draw him closer. 

And then the surface at Mick’s back slid away, causing him to fall backwards, trapped under the man. He let out a yelp, still struggling, and could feel hands pulling him backwards, out from under the weight lying on top of him, and to the other side of the room.

He yanked himself free and retreated to the corner between the bed and the wall, huddling there and wrapping his arms protectively around himself. He could see what appeared to be a fight going on between the stranger and another man, ending with the first being shoved back out onto the fire escape and the door being shut tight.

A light switched on. Mick squinted against the sudden brightness, making out the vague outlines of another motel room. 

“Kid. Kid, you okay?”

The light was blocked out somewhat by a figure crouching in front of him. Mick opened his eyes, regarding a younger man - maybe twenty - in front of him, a shock of blond hair partially covering his face. The other figure - the one who had dragged him to safety - was about the same age, brow furrowed, his hair much shorter and darker.

Mick only stared, not saying anything. He just wanted to go back to his motel room; leaving had been a mistake, he missed his mother annd father, and he didn’t want to stay here. But voicing any of that proved nearly impossible.

“It’s alright. You’re safe now. I don’t know who that guy was but he left. Probably thinks he’s going to get caught by the cops.” The blond settled back to sit on the floor in front of Mick. “I’m Liam. This is my, uh, my friend Xavier. What’s your name, kiddo?”

A long pause. “Michael.”

“Okay, Michael.” Xavier came to stand beside the bed, offering a brief smile. “You from around here? The motel, I mean. Where are your parents?”

Mick nodded. “In our room.”

“Where’s that?” Liam asked.

He couldn’t remember the number. “Upstairs.”

“Okay.” Liam got to his feet. “Look, we’re going to take you downstairs to the front desk, okay? They’ll figure out where your parents are. You alright with that?”

Mick said nothing, bracing his back against the wall and standing up. He stood there until the two men had opened the door, and then followed them outside and down to the desk.

Liam explained what had happened; that they had caught a man on the fire escape trying to abduct - that was a word Mick didn’t recognise; not a good word though, he knew - Mick, and that they were trying to find his parents. 

“What’s your full name?” The woman at the desk was addressing Mick now, while another person behind her called 911.

“Michael Rory.” Mick rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm, rocking back and forth on his heels. He almost wanted to cry; the realisation of what had happened and what might have happened to him had finally sinked in. But he managed to stay composed until his mother and father came running down the stairs.

The chatter of everyone around him faded away as Mick clinged to his mother, letting her hold him as tightly as she wanted. He buried his face in her shoulder, enveloped in the familiar scent of lavender, and finally cried, hiding the sound of it against her robe.

She led him upstairs after a few minutes, leaving Peter downstairs to talk with the police. “Michael… Michael, what happened? What were you thinking?”

Somehow, the softness of her voice, still tense with terror, hurt. “I missed Ruthie. Couldn’t sleep.” A long pause, avoiding her gaze and focusing on her fingers feverishly carding through his hair. “I just wanted to look at the sky.”

A sigh. Catherine held him closer, as though he might run away if she didn’t. “Michael, we told you not to go outside.” A deep breath. “If those boys hadn’t heard what was happening, you could have…” Her voice trailed off.

Mick turned in her lap so that he could hide his face against her shoulder again. She stopped talking after that, her hand stroking down his back. They stayed like that until Peter returned.

Mick lifted his head only enough to look at his father, seeing weariness and the remnants of fear on his face. “Michael. Rules exist for a reason. When I told you not to go outside, I meant it. You’re fortunate God still watches out for you. If He didn’t, you would have been taken away and we never would have seen you again.”

Silence fell. Mick avoided his father’s gaze, staring instead at the blankets of the bed he sat on. He heard Peter sigh, before coming over and brushing a quick kiss to the top of his son’s head. 

“At least you’re safe now. That’s what matters. Let’s try to get some sleep; we have a long drive tomorrow.”

Mick stayed in bed with his parents for the rest of the night. Eventually, he managed to drift off, mind filled with images of fire and darkness.

 

They left as quickly as possible the next morning. Liam and Xavier were in the lobby when they left, drinking coffee. They cast a smile Mick’s way and waved. He waved back, wanting to thank them but being ushered swiftly away by his parents.

The rest of the drive to the city remained uneventful. Mick napped most of the way, still tired from the night before. It wasn’t until his father shook him that he awoke, looking around blearily. 

They were outside what appeared to be a church; far larger than the one back home, and fancier. Mick stretched, blinking at it for a long moment, until his father lifted him from the seat and outside the car. 

“Father Duncan said he would be waiting to greet us inside,” Peter said as they walked toward the building. “Michael, I want you to be on your best behaviour.”

Mick only nodded. Now that the panic of the night before had faded, he found himself worrying again; about this whole trip to the city to see some other person, about the way his mother had cried over it. He didn’t want to be here.

The doors opened almost silently, but the moment they stepped inside the church, the high ceilings and enormous room sent off a faint echo with every footstep. Pews loomed on either side, leading up to an altar at the front. 

A man in dark clothing stood halfway down the aisle, nodding when he saw them approaching. “You must be the Rorys.” He appraised Mick with a cautious glance before turning back to his parents and shaking both their hands in turn. “Father Joseph Duncan.”

“Father.” Peter inclined his head. “Thank you for being so willing to help us.”

“It’s what the Lord would wish.” Father Duncan looked down at Mick again. “You must be Michael.”

Mick didn’t answer, shifting closer to his mother, ever so slightly. 

“I trust your trip went well.” The priest finally stopped studying Mick and turned back to his father.

“It did. We’re a bit tired…” He began to recount the events of the night before, which Mick tuned out as he looked around. Everything here was pretty; the stained glass windows caught the light and captured his attention, enthralled by the glowing colours.

“Michael. Named after the archangel, no doubt.”

Mick turned to face the priest again, leaning in close to his face. Startled, Mick took a step backward on instinct. “Go away.”

“Michael, what did I tell you about being rude?” Peter asked, a warning in his tones. Mick didn’t reply, fixing the priest with a wary stare.

“That’s to be expected,” Father Duncan said with a sigh. “Don’t worry. By tomorrow, all should be well. Come; I live not far from here. There is room enough for you all to stay. I already have a guest room ready and waiting.”

“And the--” Peter started.

“It will be held tonight. Don’t worry, everything has been planned.” Father Duncan moved toward the door of the church, gesturing for them to follow.

Mick stayed close to his mother. As he left the building, he cast one last look back at the stained glass windows just before the door shut, blocking their vibrant light from his view.


End file.
